


The Box

by loves_books



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Community: lewis_challenge, F/M, Fright Fest 2016, Helpless situation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:58:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: Three days, as near as he can guess from counting his own heartbeats and estimating how long he’s spent unconscious. Three days in total darkness, in complete silence and absolute isolation. It’s no wonder he’s losing his mind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> With huge thanks to my wonderful beta Owlbsurfinbird. And please do note that I've chosen not to use archive warnings here...

He knows, without any doubt, that he is dying. The thought isn’t as horrific as it was when he first woke up here, alone and trapped in darkness, practically unable to move. No, death will be a happy release at this point.

He should be more scared, but his mind is going now, and going quickly. There will be people looking for him, but he can’t quite remember who or why. He has no clear memory of what led him here, and no idea who has taken him and locked him away. He’s lost himself almost entirely, after trying to at least keep reciting his name over and over in his mind – each time he woke in darkness he was terrified to find something else had slipped away, and now all he can do is focus on his immediate physical needs.

The thirst is the worse part of it, though to his shame the nicotine cravings which make his skin itch aren’t far behind. He’s tried desperately to keep track of time as he drifts in and out of consciousness in his pitch black hell, and by his best reckoning it’s now been more than three days since a single drop of water has passed his lips. Thirst is an agonising presence now, a desperate and burning need. His only companion in the darkness.

He can feel how badly his lips have cracked and split, and his mouth and throat are now so parched that swallowing is impossible. Each blink feels like sandpaper scratching over his eyeballs, his too-fast heartbeat pounds loudly inside his aching skull, and his skin feels paper-thin and desert-dry, stretched painfully tight over strained and cramped muscles.

Wherever he is, there is nowhere near enough space for his lanky frame. The cramps as he’d struggled desperately to break free from the rough ropes binding his wrists and ankles, or at least to stretch as best he could, had been nearly as bad as the thirst at first. His arms and legs are practically numb now, his brain not far behind. As far as he can tell, his dark prison cell is a rough cube, not quite long enough for him to stretch his legs nor tall enough for him to sit up straight, and all he can do is curl miserably on his side. 

Box, room, or something else entirely, he has no idea. Metal, he’s sure of that much, cool against his cheek where his head rests awkwardly, and at first there was a musty, damp smell. It made him think him of the river, though the fetid smell of his own waste overpowered the scent before it all became something he can ignore entirely. 

His desperate fingers had quickly found the seal for what could be a door, though he can’t get the leverage to pry it open, and he’s clearly getting oxygen from somewhere. It isn’t too warm either, thank God, nor cold enough to make things worse. He thinks whoever has him must want him alive, for now.

But without water, he won’t be alive for much longer.

Hunger is almost an afterthought. He’s never been a big eater when left to his own devices, preferring coffee and a cigarette most of the time, but the very thought of food now makes him whimper and his empty stomach throbs. He tries hard not to dwell on it, knowing he has a good few weeks yet before starvation really kicks in, and the dehydration will kill him long before that.

He knows what they say. Three minutes with no air. Three days with no water. Three weeks with no food.

But it’s so hard to think. His mind is slipping away, swallowed by the pounding headache, and he idly wonders what will actually be his cause of death. It won’t be dehydration itself, he knows that much. Far more likely to be organ failure, perhaps his heart or his kidneys – he hasn’t passed water for nearly a day, his trousers long since dried from where he’d had no choice but to soil himself.

His little box is soundproofed too, he’s sure, as he can hear nothing of the outside world. He’s screamed and shouted and kicked out as hard as he can, as often as he can, particularly during the hours after he’d first woken up, and he’s also sobbed unashamedly when he finally accepted that no one is coming. He has no moisture left in his body for tears now.

Three days, as near as he can guess from counting his own heartbeats and estimating how long he’s spent unconscious. Three days in total darkness, in complete silence and absolute isolation. It’s no wonder he’s losing his mind.

He’s long since started hallucinating, seeing shapes looming out at him from the darkness, though he can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed. He’s hearing voices too, though he can’t make out their words, and since his own voice gave out he’s finally given up praying for rescue. Hail Mary and Our Father; maybe there really is no one to hear. 

In his waking nightmares, he thinks he can also hear the sound of bells. Bells that toll the passing hours, counting down to the moment he breathes his last, though they could almost have been bells attached to his coffin if he had been living a century ago. Bells he could ring desperately to say he is still alive, but whatever they are, he knows nothing he hears is real. So the strange sound of metal scraping on metal is only in his mind. It can’t be a key in a lock. 

But there is light, suddenly, flooding his coffin as the lid is lifted abruptly. The brightness is sheer agony after so long in utter darkness, and he flinches away from it as much as he is able, slamming his eyes shut and managing to throw one arm over his face.

It’s silent again for a long minute, and he fears he’s actually gone deaf, before a surprised female voice suddenly says, “Still alive, then?” The voice is familiar, somehow, though his brain is too far gone to put a name to it immediately. “I should’ve known you’d last longer than the average, I suppose. It’s been five days already – most people would be long since dead by now.”

Even with his eyes screwed tightly shut, the light feels as if it’s burning straight through his retinas and stabbing into his brain, so it takes him too long to realise that this isn’t a rescue. It takes even longer for the mention of time to register – can it really have been five whole days?

“They’re looking for you everywhere,” the woman continues in a friendly, conversational tone, her voice seeming both too loud and too close. “Tearing the whole city apart. He’s almost out of his mind with worry, of course. He’s barely slept since they found you were missing, and he’s blaming himself, typically, for not walking you home or sharing a taxi with you.”

A memory slides into place. A vague memory, of dinner with good company, and a walk through familiar Oxford streets. He’d taken a shortcut along the river. A familiar voice had called to him, stopping him in his tracks, and then – 

“I’m comforting him, though. Making sure he eats something and gets some rest. It’s important to me that you understand that much – I promise I’ll look after him for you, especially when they find your body. I’d hoped that could be tonight, but it will have to wait, I suppose. I just don’t want him to suffer more than he has to.”

What about my suffering? he tries to scream, but all that escapes his parched throat is a painful croak.

“I really am sorry about all this, I do hope you understand that too.” She doesn’t sound very apologetic, though, at least not to his ears. “But it really is your own fault. If only you hadn’t fooled him into thinking he could love you more than he loved me. If only he hadn’t left me for you, then I wouldn’t have had to do this. He’ll come back to me once you’re gone.”

The voice really is incredibly familiar, her name hovering just beyond the edges of his fraying mind, and all he wants to do is shout, to leap from his confining box and just run far and fast. But sadly it’s an impossible dream, as weak as he is and with his muscles all but locked into position.

His eyes might still be closed, but he can sense the change in light levels as the woman starts to lower the lid of what will soon become his tomb. He makes one final desperate attempt to lift his head in the hope of keeping it open, but a gentle hand pushes him back down almost effortlessly, until the lid is barely ajar.

“Don’t fight it,” she tells him quietly through the crack. “Close your eyes and just go to sleep, and it will all be over. And remember, James, I promise I’ll look after Robbie for you. For both of us. Sweet dreams, love.”

Darkness embraces him once again as the box closes around him. It’s almost a blessing, after the pain of the light, and perhaps death will follow soon now.

At least he knows why. At least there is a reason. And a name, someone who loves him.

Robbie…


End file.
